


Put you Back Together Again

by 401



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Awkwardness, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Returns, Eventual Smut, Flashbacks, Hurt Steve Rogers, Love, M/M, Mild S&M, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Steve, Steve Feels
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-27
Updated: 2016-05-30
Packaged: 2018-07-10 13:55:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6987733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/401/pseuds/401
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky comes back. They learn how to live.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Speed Dial

Bucky placed his bags down in the doorway of the bleakly furnished apartment. There was a single bed, one window (a fairly big one, mind), a kitchenette and a bathroom that was really more of a tiled closet with a shower and a toilet. There was also a reclining armchair, made of scuffed blue leather that reminded Bucky of the skin of an elephant. He had never seen one in real life; only pictures. The whole room radiated a stark silence that screamed “The rest is up to you,” in seeming anticipation of his next unpracticed action. He stepped further into his new crash, taking in a breath that burned with the smell of bleach, Windex and cigarette smoke.

At least it was clean, he thought, locking the door behind him and setting about putting away his groceries.

Eggs, apples, bacon, milk and bread. The grocery store had gotten too much for him to handle before anymore choices could be made, so he had forced himself down the Canned Goods aisle for tinned spaghetti and franks before paying quickly and leaving even more so, the fluorescent lights still etched into the backs of his eyes and a thousand smells sticking in his nose.

A relative calm had found him when he had gotten back to the apartment. He had chosen to stick around Washington DC, Arlington to be precise. It was far enough away from the house that he knew the Captain was staying in to be safe, but not so far that if the change in spirit that Bucky was praying would find him would be useless.

He had been planning an approach for months, getting near enough to the Captain’s doorstep on a couple of occasions before being hit with waves of anxious nausea and retreating with damp hands and a tight chest. There was something stopping him, shame maybe, and it was almost as strong as what was drawing him relentlessly to the man on the bridge.

It did not stop the sleepless nights spent begging his own mind to give him some respite from the forbidden longing and cold emptiness that he knew only came from the absence of one person.

The memories would come in fractured waves, just as he felt himself slip into a merciful sleep, once again throwing him headlong into heat and passion that he had never properly gotten to feel, and now felt like he was not allowed to.

And it was always followed by guilt. The crippling kind that makes you feel dirty all over and offers more questions than answers.

Bucky kicked off his boots and fell onto the bed, pulling his t-shirt over his head and breathing a sigh of comfort at the feeling of cold sheets against his skin. Fatigue creeped over him faster than he expected. He closed his eyes. His thoughts came in a slow, trickling stream, random images of things he had seen, all mundane and benevolent. They started to make less sense, stories with impossible endings and words that meant nothing in reality but made perfect sense in his own cognitive production line. He figured he must be dreaming, at least a little.

It was comfortable, until the dreams started to pick up pace and gain clarity. Then it was the usual routine. Fall, remember, be wiped, repeat.

Over, and over, and over.

The taste of rubber in his mouth and restraints on his wrists, stifling and familiar, but no less horrifying that the first time. Then gold, absorbing and consuming him. Heat all around him, the type he craved. The man on the bridge.

Bucky sat up, gasping through a closing throat. He threw his pillow at the wall, and then his legs off of the edge of the bed, raking his hands through his hair and swallowing hard against the gasps that were taking over his chest. 

He opened the small flip phone in his pocket and let it’s green light illuminate his face. 2:57 am. He had gotten a couple of hours sleep, which was something, even if it had felt like he had barely blinked.

He only had 3 numbers in that phone: a pizza joint, the Smithsonian and SHIELD’s public helpline.

He knew which one he needed.

He dialed SHIELD’s number. It was 24/7, seven days a week, mainly for reporting anything suspicious. Bucky reminded himself that he was exactly that type of ‘something suspicious’ that they meant.

“Hello, this is the SHIELD enquiries helpline. How can I help you?”

The voice was male, all professionalism and happiness painted over the obvious fatigue of being up at this time of night. Bucky felt a small pang of sympathy for the man on the other side of the phone who was most probably thinking that he was about to deal with just another nutjob.

“Is...is there any way of me speaking to Captain Rogers? Steve Rogers?” Bucky asked, wincing at how strange it sounded out loud.

There was a pause on the line.

“You want to speak to Captain America. At three am?,” The voice replied incredulously. 

“Mhm. If it would be possible,” Bucky replied.

Another pause. There was a muttering and movement.

“I can see if there is a way of me getting through to the Captain’s office...hold for me,” The voice replied slowly.

Bucky could sense that the man was humouring him, and he was not as offended as he was straight up relieved. The line started to play music, classical but somehow electronic sounding. It made Bucky’s teeth hurt. The line engaged again and Bucky straightened a little.

“Hello, you’ve reached the office of Captain Steven Rogers. My name is Marcus Bates, I am the assistant for this line. Can I help you?”

Bucky suppressed a sigh.

“I was really just wondering if I...it’s important,” Bucky felt the urge to hang up and cry building in his chest. He swallowed it.

“Is Captain Rogers there?” Bucky asked, “I know him.”

There was another agonising pause. Bucky made out the words “He says he knows you,” and “Shall I trace it?” from a hubbub of static and movement.

“Who is this?” A different voice asked. Bucky recognised this voice. His heart picked up.

“Hello?” The voice was louder this time, a small twinge of annoyance under what sounded like layers of tiredness and stress.

“Steve…” Bucky managed, closing his eyes and levelling his thoughts.

There was a dead silence.

“Who  _ is  _ this?” The Captain asked, “Last chance before I hang up. All calls to this number are tracked.”   
  


Bucky swallowed.

“Bucky,” He whispered, “It’s Bucky. Please don’t hang up.”   
  


Bucky heard Steve breathe out shakily.

“I’m coming,” the Captain said quietly, “Just hold on.”   
  



	2. Familiar

“Sir, would I be overstepping a line to say that this is probably quite a bad idea, considering your friend’s….”

“An assassin?” Steve finished for his assistant. 

Marcus bounced on his toes and brushed his quaff out of his face, noticeably reddening as he nodded. 

“I was going to say ex-Hydra war criminal but yes, assassin covers it, I’m sure.” 

“It might be a trap, you know. That would be...really bad,” Marcus continued and moved around the office nervously, avoiding Steve’s purposeful routes around the room, grabbing his essentials with a growing air of urgency.

“That’s why I need you”- Steve put his hands on the young man’s shoulders- “To absolutely, positively not tell the rest of the Avengers where I am. If they ask, I went for a run. A long run.”

Marcus pulled a pained expression and straightened his glasses on his nose before surrendering to the look that Steve was giving him, a look that was becoming more steely by the second.

“Get a job with Captain America, they said. It will be super awesome, they said,” Marcus mumbled, “I did not sign up for lying to one of the biggest intelligence agencies on the planet, Sir.”   
  


Steve smiled and patted Marcus’ back, making the slight man shift forward a little with the force. He reminded Steve of himself, before the war and the serum. Small and punchy.

“Ahh, but you won’t be lying, not completely,” Steve explained, rolling up the sleeves of his button down and putting the shield on his back, “Because I  _ will  _ be running there.”

Marcus rubbed his face in exasperation and sat down at the desk. Steve pressed a twenty dollar bill into his hand.

“Order yourself a pizza,” Steve ordered, “And get home safe, alright Kid?” 

Marcus nodded and thanked Steve before buzzing him out of the building and waving out of the window.

Steve broke into a sprint as soon as he hit street level. He opened the screen of his mobile. As expected, there was a notification for the phone call he had just had, highlighting its source. Steve cursed himself when he saw its proximity. Bucky had been within running distance this whole time. Steve reminded himself that he probably would have made any distance ‘running distance’ if it had meant finding Bucky, but that was not the point. The point was that he had roamed these orange lit streets too many nights in a row, taken stupidly long routes home and jogged until he felt nauseous, just to increase his chances of finding his lost soldier. Now, all of the times he had sworn he had seen a glimmer of steel darting around a corner, or a man whos hair was parted just so, seemed a little less like the pipe dreams of a lonely old man and more like lost opportunities and a lack of due diligence. It did not sit too well with the Captain.

He let the map guide him to the apartment block, covered in graffiti on the outside. He took the stairs four at a time until his phone vibrated in his palm outside one of the apartments. He had passed no-one, most of the doors marked with ‘to rent’ signs or logged with piles of unread and overflowing post at their doorsteps.

Steve went to knock but caught his heart in outstretched hands.

_ If he felt the same way about you, he would have told you before the war. _

The critical doubt hit Steve in the stomach, making him feel physically ill for a few counts. He and Bucky had never crossed the threshold between friends and lovers before the war. They had been on neither defined side of that line, rather sat atop it uncomfortably, wanting each other painfully but fearing the consequences so much that sense trumped passion. 

_ But 70 years have passed now, people are more accepting. _

Would Bucky be accepting? Hydra had found a way to erase empathy, fear and memory in his old friend. Steve saw no reason why love and old romance could not have gone with it, along with all of the other important things that made Bucky, Bucky.

There were still some of them. His voice was the same, he still chewed his bottom lip when he was nervous and he still frowned with one side more than the other. Steve wondered if his smile had changed. He had not seen Bucky smile since the Forties, so he could not be sure.

Steve swallowed his doubt and knocked on the door. He heard movement. The door opened a little.

“Hey, Buck,” Steve said quietly.

“Hey,” Bucky whispered, something familiar lighting up on the soldier’s face.

Steve felt relief move through him like electricity. Although smaller, Bucky’s smile had not changed.


	3. Miss You

Bucky led Steve into the small studio apartment, kicking a pair of sneakers out of the way as he did.

"I would offer you a coffee but I forgot to buy any," Bucky admitted quietly.

Steve shrugged, smiling. Bucky sat on the end of his bed, clasping his hands in front of him and looking down at them. Steve reminded himself to stop staring, but his eyes locked onto Bucky in an almost trance like manner. 

He had dedicated every ounce of energy, spare or occupied, on finding the soldier. There more dead leads than hot ones, and even those fizzled out as soon as he got to them. Now he was sitting a couple of yards away. A calm went through Steve's mind. It was welcome.

The room was noticeably colder than the hall, a frigid breeze coming in from the window, left ajar and disturbing the curtains. It was too empty to be messy, but Steve imagined it would be if there were more things inside it. There was a sense of disorder, countered by some areas of military precision. 

On the kitchen counter, there were pieces of paper strewn haphazardly so that you could see none of the vinyl countertop. Maps, notebook pages that look angrily scribbled on and discarded, clipping from newspapers. On the small desk opposite there were four hand guns, arranged by calibre and size, bullets laid out perfectly with the same arrangements. There were combat knives too, arranged by size and lined up. The contrast made Steve's stomach feel uneasy. The only order with Bucky was in fighting and war. He fell apart when he was faced with everyday life.

"Are you eating properly?" Steve asked, unsure of why it was the first thing that had come to his mind. 

It was difficult for Steve to judge whether Bucky had lost weight. If he based his comparison on the Bucky that he remembered, his Bucky, he had grown 3 inches and gained 20 pounds of muscle. But since the bridge, perhaps he had slimmed down. Steve could not tell if it was weight loss or fatigue.

"I think so," Bucky replied, "I forget breakfast...I usually only manage dinner."

Steve frowned and went over to the fridge. He grabbed two apples, some ham and two slices of bread. He made as best a sandwich as he could with the limited ingredients and bought it over to Bucky, putting it on his lap and sitting back down.

"Eat," Steve encouraged, "Please. You need to."

Bucky obeyed and ate the first half of the sandwich before starting to speak again.

"I know where you live," Bucky stated, wincing at how menacing it sounded out loud,

"I mean I found you, but I couldn't face you. I was too nervous."

Steve shrugged and sat back in the armchair a little, trying to put Bucky at ease.

"Forget about it. I'm here now," Steve reassured, "You don't have to sneak around anymore, eh?"

Steve winked, leaning forward and squeezing Bucky's knee affectionately. Bucky felt his face heat up at the contact, an unfamiliar electricity travelling through him. It was almost like sitting in hot water after walking in the snow. Muscles unwound and it burned.

"Oh, and are you sleeping?" Steve asked.

Bucky chuckled out loud.

"No," he replied, "I won’t even lie to you, Stevie."

The pet name hit Steve in the guts, tears spiking his eyes almost immediately. He held them back as best he could but something in his foundations gave. The emotion was sudden, like a dam breaking. He wanted to sob, deep ugly sobs, the kind that he felt ashamed of even when he was alone. He wanted to beg the man in front of him for forgiveness, drown in the shame of the fact that Bucky had protected him unconditionally for his whole life, and when it had mattered the most, he himself had failed and let his world slip from his fingers and into Hydra's. The tears started to drop onto Steve's knees, making dark spots on his jeans.

"Steve?" Bucky leaned forward, trying to see the Captain's face.

Steve shook his head and wiped his eyes roughly on the back of his wrists , but it did nothing to stem the tears and they continued to fall. He leant his elbows on his knees and covered his face with his hands, sensing that if he could not stop them, he might be able to make them less obvious. There were a few moments of silence before Steve felt warmth against his face, body heat through fabric and the smell of soap and familiar skin. Then hands on his, standing him up. He fell very willingly into the embrace, wrapping his arms around Bucky's middle. The steel fingers against the back of his neck felt surprisingly nothing but human. There was vibration in their sythethetic joints, life and tactile fluidity. It was easy to forget that it was not part of Bucky entirely. Steve was happy to let himself forget.

"I didn't want to make this about me," Steve choked out, the sobs shaking his voice, "But I'm mad, I am  _ so mad _ ."

"I'm mad at myself because you counted on me, I'm mad at them from taking you away from me because you were all..."

Steve took a shivering breath in, squeezing onto Bucky's shoulders tighter.

"You were my  _ world _ , Buck."

Bucky held onto the Captain tighter, pressing his nose and mouth against his neck. The throbbing background noise that seemed to always grate on Bucky's nerves melted away. All there was was Steve. Heat and light.

"You still are," Steve whispered, "I never forgot about you."

Bucky felt his chest tighten with his own tears. He held Steve's face in his hands and pressed his lips to his, shushing him as he did. He deepened the kiss a little, pulling Steve's bottom lip into his mouth and biting down gently. The Captain exhaled heavily against Bucky's mouth and ran his hands back through Bucky's hair, holding on. Their cheeks bumped, the coolness of their tears and the burning heat of the skin underneath absorbing them both.

"I missed you so bad, Steve," Bucky breathed, coiling his fingers too tight in  Steve's hair, before going straight back into another kiss that could not last long enough.

"You'll never have to miss me again," Steve promised.


	4. On Repeat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor TW for vomiting.

  
_"Kneel."_   


 

_The Asset felt his throat clench, a lurch of nausea almost involuntarily to his knees. He kept his legs straight, gritting his teeth and setting his jaw._

 

_"Kneel."_

 

_The handler's upper lip curled at the corner, turning the command into a wet snarl that felt like it coated the Asset's skin like a film of filth. He surrendered to the command, shuddering to his knees on the concrete. The contact ached through his raw skin, worn down from hours upon hours of this derogatory ritual._

 

_He had started it with hope that its intention, to make him feel utterly worthless, would fail and would instead just enrage him. Now, he was not so confident. Every time he sunk to into a prayer position at the feet of one sadistic megalomaniac or another, he doubted himself a little more. As every hit passed, and he killed one more person, he started to feel as though his dignity was the least he could give. He took his victims' dignity when he decided their deaths. Perhaps this was his atonement, his opportunity to repent._

 

_"Kneel properly," the handler ordered._

 

_Bucky bowed his head as much as he could manage, the newly severed and welded tendons in his shoulder screaming in protest, the raw nerves pulling against their imposing metal socket, melted into his bones like a parasitic tumour._

 

_"KNEEL!" The handler growled, booting Bucky in the back of the head._

 

_The pain tore through him like a fever, making the floor spin. His ears filled with the rushing of his blood and the sound of his own vomiting, warm, caustic and sickening over his scraped knees. The handler placed another kick against his back before turning and going to leave the room, muttering something under his breath._

 

_"Get yourself cleaned up, soldier," he hissed, "And report for re-conditioning in 2 hours."_

 

Bucky sat up, his chest drenched with sweat despite the icy cold he could feel leeching through his muscles.

 

"No, no , no," Bucky sobbed, sliding back in panic, "Not again, please not again."

 

His breath came in chokes and gasps. The room was unstable around him, subconsciously he knew where he was but the animal, impulsive part of his brain was screaming "escape". There were arms around him then, strong and restraining but affectionate.

 

"You're okay," The owner of the arms assured, "I promise, you are okay. I am right here."

 

Bucky let himself relax, tremors taking over his body as soon as he let his guard down. Steve nudged him over so they both fit on the bed as best as they could, and wrapped his arms around Bucky more completely, using his weight to pin the soldier and stabilise him.

 

"I'm a monster," Bucky growled into the pillow, straining against Steve's embrace as he broke down, "I'm a fucking MONSTER!"

 

Steve caught Bucky's flesh hand before it could connect with the wall and squeezed it against his chest.

 

"You're not properly awake yet, Buck," Steve reminded, "Give yourself a minute, it will get less scary."

 

The Captain had felt this before. After New York, it had started. At first it was just cold sweats that he could not explain, or a feeling of uneasiness that lasted right through the day sometimes. It had grown, slowly but surely like a disease in his mind, taking over most nights and leaving him drained. The nightmares became so vivid that it took him an hour to be sure that they had ended some nights. He knew in hindsight that he would have been endlessly grateful for someone's company on those nights. If he could offer that at least to Bucky, he would feel as though he had done some good.

 

"You should go," Bucky murmured, sitting up and crossing his legs, "I'm..."

 

Steve held the soldier's hands in his own. The living one was trembling. The metal one was humming rhythmically.

 

"You're what?" Steve coaxed, tilting Bucky's chin up a little.

 

"I don't deserve you," Bucky frowned, "You should-. You should save yourself all of this trouble."

 

"You have friends and a life, you could settle down and move on. You're heads in the right place and you shouldn't have to babysit me because I cant function like a grown-ass man."

 

Steve shook his head, going to speak and then losing his words.

 

"Can you remember when we were in Brooklyn? There was that one stretch of about 6 months or so where you would have to sleep in my room with me because my asthma got so bad. I couldn't function then, not without you. What makes you think that I wont do that for you Bucky?" Steve asked, watching as the memories flickered behind Bucky's eyes like a scene behind frosted glass.

 

"You weren't a mass murderer," Bucky mumbled flatly,

 

"You didn't try to kill my friends, turn my life upside down. You didn't hold me down and punch me over and over...I didn't stop."

 

Bucky's words choked into watery silence again. It was Steve's turn to remember now. His fingers autonomously flickered up to his cheek, running over the tiny silver scar on his cheek. When he held Bucky's hands now, he could not feel them doing this to him. He could not feel those hands hurting him they had that day on the helicarrier; there was too much warmth behind those hands, too much tenderness. He pushed it from his mind.

 

Bucky reached up and took Steve's hand down from his cheek, brushing his own thumb over the little crescent shaped legion. He blew out a sigh, the guilt curdling in his stomach. If someone had done this to Steve before the war, before the mess that had followed, he would have made sure they had their ass handed to them, probably by him personally. The thought of hurting Steve went against something unfamiliar but incredibly powerful and inflammatory inside him.

 

It had ignited almost immediately after he had pulled Steve out of gas-smelling chaos of the Potomac on the day of the helicarriers. He had let the Captain's limp body fall against the thick mud of the bank with the dull thud and a small voice in the back of his head had scolded him straight away: "Be gentle". He had stayed, where apathy and military order would have usually prompted him to leave instantly, and waited for Steve to cough, or show some movement. He brushed his hair out of his face and made sure his spine was straight and supported before leaving. He would have liked to say that he had not looked back, but he had. At least five times.

 

Steve looked up, towards the window. It was light now, the sound of the first commuters starting to bloom in the orange heat of the August morning.

 

"It looks like you got a bit of sleep at least," Steve gestured towards the growing sunrise, seeing some of the tension leave Bucky at the change in subject and conversation.

 

Bucky stood up and went to the window and opened the curtains, looking out over the Washington skyline with his forehead pressed against the glass. He watched the cars filter through the veins of the waking city with a distant and removed longing. The world was ticking away subtly, the cogs of it functioning from what felt like miles away. He wanted to be part of it.

 

"You wanna go for a walk, Buck?" Steve offered, "It's nice out."

 

Bucky swallowed hard. His hands left damp prints on the glass.

 

"Yeah," Bucky agreed, "Yeah, that would be nice."

 

 


End file.
